


offerings

by chailattemusings



Series: siren songs [3]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: M/M, Multi, animal death cw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 06:17:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5616679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chailattemusings/pseuds/chailattemusings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fights were easy. If Smith fought with anyone, he could throw a punch. He left with a black eye or a broken bone, and a few weeks later it stopped mattering. A few baths in the city river and he was fine. Arguments . . . arguments were not easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	offerings

There was a hot, uncomfortable feeling in Smith's chest, and he didn't know how to get rid of it.

It wasn't . . . crying. He didn't cry. He didn't let people see him cry. But the feeling was there, tight, twisting around the edges of his rib cage, poking at the base of his spine, digging in every time he moved, like someone had dumped used hospital needles into the river again.

Trott was locked up in the office. The pen tapping was aggressive, loud enough that Smith could hear it through the door every time he walked by, hovering around the edges of the doorway, hoping Trott would open it up and everything would be fine. But there was no sign of him leaving and every time Smith walked past the door the hot needle feeling dug into his chest and ripped out the back of his sternum.

Fights were easy. If Smith fought with anyone, he could throw a punch. He left with a black eye or a broken bone, and a few weeks later it stopped mattering. A few baths in the city river and he was fine. Arguments . . . arguments were not easy. 

A bath in the river might help, either way. Smith slammed the door on his way out, definitely not hoping Trott would hear it and follow him and definitely not disappointed when that didn't happen. He trudged down the steps of the apartment complex and dug his keys out of his pocket, struggling to remember which car was his this week. Trott had said something about being conspicuous a while ago, and for once Smith hadn't stolen a sports car. He'd gone for something sleeker and more modern that he was was pretty sure had belonged to a banker, judging by all the paperwork in the glove compartment. For a good day and a half Smith had thought they could use the papers, maybe break into someone's account, but Trott had assured him they were just security records, nothing worth their time.

He'd burned the papers, and now the glove compartment held a half empty pack of cigarettes and a few old cassettes Smith had dug out of the dumpster when he'd been looking for a unwanted goodies to bring back to the apartment.

The car didn't have a cassette player, though. Smith resigned himself to a silent ride, feeling the purr of the engine in the hood and the heavy weight of the wheel in his hands every time he made a turn, the power of a literal ton of steel under his body. It hummed through him and helped steady his breathing, shoulders losing their tension, breath coming out in rhythm with the thrum of the engine every time he turned down a new street.

The city river was a shallow, pathetic thing, tucked between two roads and getting thinner by the day; the empty canal space left by the water was filled in with mud, sewage, and more litter than Smith cared to think about. He parked diagonally on the side of the road and jumped down the small distance to the waterbed, shedding his clothes as he went. It was late; anyone who saw him wouldn't care about stopping him.

The water was thick, full of sludge, clumping around his skin where it met the surface of the river. Smith dipped his hands in and they came back brown, rolling over the pads of his fingers and plunking back into the water, splashing around his hips. He sunk down, staining his skin and feeling it cling like algae, sliding down his back and leaving a long, cold smear that made him shiver, the temperature working through his legs, his arms, down to his core to settle like a wet blanket.

He breathed in and his nose was clogged with the scent of grime and mud, but he could sense it, underneath, the life of the river that permeated the waters. It flowed slowly and was blocked up by dams, bridges, collections of trash piled at the bottom of the concrete that lined the river out to where it left the city. It was stained with the leftover lives of every person within miles of the river, dirt and filth smudging the water and creating a new life all its own.

Smith sunk in, covering his eyes, his hair, letting himself breathe in the life of the city to sooth his bones. The faint pulse of rejection rang through it, like it always did, the pieces of the river that mirrored Smith's life hooking into him and pulling his skin tight over the muscles, begging him to sink deeper, to become one with the river and breathe out the muck of the city until it filled his lungs, until scum lined his insides and churned in his blood.

He resisted, barely. The river wasn't ready for him, not yet. He gasped as he broke the surface, drowning tension pulling at the lungs he'd made with this human form. The air was like liquid fire in his chest and it took a long moment to get used to it again, to remember what breathing oxygen felt like. Smith blinked and wiped the grime from his eyelids, letting the setting sun seep back into his vision.

The river was rippling, stirred from his body and his breath. The water swirled around Smith's legs like a current, whirling typhoons over his feet, up his ankles and knees and tugging at his hips, begging him to dive down again. Smith snarled and smacked the water harshly, droplets and mud flying around him.

Something else scattered, and Smith paused, glancing down. There were little pricks in the water, small bodies fluttering around him, the fading light just barely glancing off the edges. He squinted and kicked out his legs. A group of the tiny objects burst open like the petals of a flower; a school of fish, nibbling at the rotting edges of the river.

The sight of them tugged at what could _probably_ be called Smith's conscience, as questionable as it was. The fish were barely bigger than his palm, wanting to grow bigger with the river and unable to with the constant stream of gack and debris that filled it. He bent down, letting himself submerge up to his shoulders, and held a hand out under the water.

They crowded around him again, over his legs and around his fingers, tickling like tiny strings over his skin. Smith giggled, wiggling his fingers, and the fish followed the motion, surrounding him like a glove of scales and fins.

It wasn't often Smith called something cute. Puppies were annoying, kittens were loud, and human babies were nothing more than empty mouths covered in weird, jiggly flesh. If someone showed him a tiny animal his first instinct was to wonder how it tasted.

But the fish were just struggling to survive, stuck in a filthy river. Their mouths skittered over the pads of his fingers, searching for food, nibbling at the edges without biting down. Smith stood slowly, hand drawing up with him, and the fish followed until they couldn't, mouthing at the surface of the water and scattering again as his hand broke the top, any potential food stolen away with it.

Smith shifted, the river's concrete solid and ice cold under the pads of his feet. The river always made his heart thrum and sing, even as the litter and rot weighed him down with the weight of a thousand stones. He needed to go home eventually, but the water was calling him, tangling around his toes and his wrists to yank him back underneath where he couldn't breathe.

And then there was Trott, too, writing with force enough to shred his papers and shatter his pens, seeking solace in the only thing he could focus on for more than ten minutes. Smith looked down at the water again, at the fish nibbling around him in desperate hopes of something to eat. His clothes were scattered on the waterbed and his car shone with the last rays of the setting sun bouncing off the paint job.

He reached down, curling his hand in the water and snatching one of the fish. It wiggled in his fingers, flailing as panic filled its tiny body, but Smith held tight and turned, getting out of the river and climbing up the bed. He dropped the fish and pulled his clothes on, dry again almost as soon as he walked out. The fish jumped, bouncing on the rocks. Smith snatched it again and got in his car, dumping the fish in his outside jacket pocket. His mind blurred as he started the car, speeding down the closest road that would take him home, the frantic thrashes of the fish coming to a stop within a few minutes.

Ross wasn't home yet. Smith frowned at the door left exactly as it had been when he'd gone, no signs of anyone else crossing the threshold. He slipped his keys in and slammed it behind him, looking at Trott's office door, still held firmly shut with the sounds of Trott's muttering leaking through the thin walls.

He put a hand in his pocket, stroking over soft scales, and tapped his knuckles on the door. “Mate?” he asked gently. “Are you still in there?”

He could hear Trott and they both knew that, but the question made him go silent on the other side, a long beat passing. Smith shuffled on his feet and moved away, ready to go to the living room and drown himself in a bad movie, when the door opened.

Trott leaned his head out just enough to look at him, brow raised, hand tight on the door and ready to slam it in Smith's face. “What,” he said, deadpan.

Smith leaned back and swallowed. “Are you . . .” He stopped, the words flying away like dead bugs. Trott's eyes were narrowed, only his torso visible through the crack in the door, body language unreadable. He knew what that did to Smith, how he flailed when he couldn't look at someone and know their thoughts, their doubts, their weaknesses. “Can you come out here, please?” he begged, hating the sound of his own desperation.

Leaning back, Trott considered him, and sighed, stepping out fully. The door clicked shut softly and Smith sagged with relief at the sound of it.

Crossing his arms, Trott said, “What do you want? I was in the middle of something.”

“Mate,” Smith said quietly but Trott was having none of it, scoffing and standing as tall as he could manage, still shorter than Smith by half a foot. Smith grimaced and tucked his hands into his jacket pocket, jerking when he felt the fish there. He'd nearly forgotten about it. “Here,” he said, clasping his hand around it. “I have a gift for you.”

Trott looked skeptically at Smith's hand as he pulled the fish out, reeling back when he saw it. “Smith!” he said, groaning. “Why would you bring that in the house?!”

Smith faltered, nearly losing his grip on the dead fish. “I– I thought you'd like it.” He looked at the fish, sitting limply in his palm, all sense of life and wonder gone from it. “You're from the sea, right?” he tried again, holding the fish up. “Didn't you used to eat fish?”

“Yeah, live ones from the ocean, not something rotting and scrawny. Did you–” Trott's nose wrinkled, “Did you get that from the _river_? Smith, do you know how filthy that thing is?”

Smith puffed up, lips thinning. “Of course I do, it's my bloody river! I thought I'd bring back a nice gift, asshole!” His fingers tightened around the fish, threatening to pop its eyes from its head. “Serves me for thinking I could smooth this over.”

Trott's mouth opened but Smith tossed the fish before he could speak, the body hitting the floor with a wet smack. Smith turned and stormed down the hall, cursing under his breath.

Eyes wide, Trott watched him go. Smith shut himself in the bedroom.

Looking down, Trott took in the tiny fish, only a few inches long, its eyes empty of anything other than the meat they were made from. He bent down, kneeling next to it, and poked it with one finger. It didn't move, only flopped uselessly on the carpeting. It would take forever to get the stain out, juices splattered around the body and quickly soaking into the carpet fibers. They'd had worse messes; they _had_ worse messes, regular cleanup around the apartment sorely limited to whenever Sips decided to drop in and complained about the smell.

Sighing, Trott stood, nudging the fish with his toe. It really wasn't that different from the fish he'd caught in his life at sea; a bit smaller but fundamentally the same. It reeked a little of the putrid magic that seeped into the river, spells failed and rejected that flowed into its sad, polluted excuse for water. But it wasn't enough to make Trott's hair stand on end like it did any time the garbage court had to pass by the street with Kirin's shop.

He went to the kitchen and grabbed one of the dirtier dish rags, bending down and scooping up the fish, setting it carefully on the counter. Minus the parts of the skin where it had split open upon hitting the floor, it wasn't half-bad. Trott glanced down the hall again, and back to the fish, reaching out. He pulled a chunk of meat from it, barely bigger than the nail on his pinky finger, and took a nibble.

The smell pulled him back years, to long days at sea, spent hunting and whirling through the waters to find the next meal, large jaw and sharp teeth opened to catch unsuspecting fish like a trap, snapping closed with the force of steel girders and sending blood flying through the water. The smell of dead fish stung his nostrils, a scent from years past when Trott would sit on beach rocks and devour his meals with the rest of his people.

He'd had fish since he'd come on land, sure, but humans were so picky about their food. They insisted on cooking everything. Even at the market where there was good, fresh stuff, Trott wasn't allowed to taste it raw. And then Sips hadn't cared for fish and Ross didn't like any kind of food where he could tell what the animal had been beforehand because he felt too sorry to eat them . . . Trott had long given up on caring about capturing nostalgia for his days in the ocean.

The fish was still, unmoving, dead long before it'd come to the ratty apartment. Trott frowned and grabbed it, tossing it inside their meager excuse for a freezer. He stalked down the hall with purpose, the taste of raw fish on the back of his tongue, the scent of the ocean in his nostrils and flooding his brain with sharp reminders of years he'd never get back. He halted sharply in front of their bedroom door and knocked three times, waiting.

It clicked. Smith peeked out.

“Hey,” Trott said, all his emotions leaking out like steam in one word. “Are you . . . busy?” The question came out like fear. Trott frowned, swallowed, and squared his shoulders. “Do you want to go do something?” he said, more firm.

Smith leaned out of the doorway, eyebrow quirked up. “Aren't you a little occupied with your precious paperwork?” he spat.

Trott reeled back. “I can take breaks. I think it's really important we go somewhere. Together.”

Hesitating, Smith stepped out of the room, closing the door harder than necessary behind himself. “Ross and Sips?”

“They can fuck off doing whatever,” Trott said, waving a hand dismissively. “Come on, Smith, let's get the fuck out of here. We haven't done anything together in too long.”

Another long pause. Smith stared apprehensively at Trott, shoulders drawn up and eyes narrowed, but he nodded, striding past Trott to the front door. He glanced at the floor, where the carpet was stained with fish entrails and juice. “Throw it out?” he grit, lips pursed.

“Freezer,” Trott countered, grabbing his jacket from where it lay over the back of the couch. Smith blinked, surprised, and Trott grinned to himself as he walked past him and out of the apartment.

The sun had set and the city was slowly being enveloped in darkness, wisps of night wrapping around buildings in shadows and quiet sounds of rats scuttling through the gutters. Trott flipped his hair out of his eyes and went straight to Smith's newest car, slipping in the drivers seat. Smith made an indignant noise behind him and Trott snickered. “I'm driving!” he said, popping the glove compartment open to grab the car's actual keys. Smith growled and sat in the passenger seat, his own keys clenched in his palm.

It had been a while since Trott had driven; Smith always loved it no matter what car they took and no one saw fit to argue with letting him take them everywhere. Smith knew the roads of the city like the veins on the back of his hand, each curve and bend a roadmap of his lifeblood and twice as heady in his throat when he drove. The last time Trott had driven had been when they'd needed to take Ross to a witch for his broken glass tail and Smith hadn't known anyone reputable enough. He'd instead stayed in the back of their car– a van at the time– rubbing Ross' back while Trott sped them toward the nearest healer.

The wheel was heavy under Trott's hands now, and it took a long minute to remember how to get where he was going. Smith slumped in his seat, twitching with the need to wrest the wheel from Trott and get his ride back underneath him. Trott's hands were firm on the wheel. If Smith learned anything from this it would be not to question Trott when he'd settled on an idea; it was how they'd started their argument in the first place.

The beach wasn't far, luckily. Neither Trott nor Smith liked to be far from the water, and as skittish as Ross was about it, worried for his stone body and the wear he would take from brutal waves, he enjoyed sitting on the sand and scooping tiny castles into shape with his tail. It wasn't uncommon for them to take a trip once every couple months to enjoy the sun and the surf, even though the lake's beach was more often than not filled with raucous teenagers that Smith had to scare off with sharp teeth and sharper words.

They didn't often visit it at night. The sand was a different shade, the pale tan turned grey without the sun to shine on it. The water was calm, nudging at the land, shells and rocks churning underneath its edges.

“Hey mate,” Trott said, stepping out of the car, down the wall that separated the road from the beach below, “do you remember when we first met?” He turned as he said it, the night breeze rustling his bangs.

Smith leaned on the door of the car. 

Trott snorted. “Come on, your memory's not that bad. Just because you don't bother to remember any of the humans around here . . .”

“I remember.” Smith kicked off the car and slid down the concrete wall, landing on the sand with a hard thump. When he stood, the edges of smirk played at his lips, like a tiny flame springing to life among tinder. “It's hard to forget that awful song of yours.”

“Oi!” Trott warned, laughing. “I'll sing it again if you're not careful, you git.”

Smith reflexively covered his ears. “My ears'll bleed out! And then Sips will be on your arse!”

“Sips _loves_ my singing. And so does Ross.” Trott turned back to the sea, the edges of the water teasing at his shoes. “They don't know why it _bothers_ you so much.”

“It sounds like dead cats!”

“Yeah.” Bending down, Trott picked up a seashell. It was small, one of the plain white ones that covered every beach, no bigger than his thumbnail. It felt like the ocean's bed, rough enough to cut the foot of anyone that stepped on it, fragile enough to be shattered with the right pressure. Trott's smile faded and he flicked the shell, watching it plink back into the water. “You said that the first time we met, too.”

“It's true.” Sidling up to him, Smith nudged Trott's side. “What are you getting at, mate? What's the point of coming here in the middle of the fucking night, eh? I thought you were pissed with me.”

“I was.” Trott breathed out hard. “I am. But . . . I liked the fish.” He lifted his lips and tapped a finger on his front teeth. “Reminded me of a lot of things.”

Smith's brow furrowed, eyes darting between Trott's teeth and his eyes. “You– you _ate_ it?” He burst into a laugh, a hand braced on his chest. “Trott– Trott, you fucking weirdo! You ate that filthy fish from the fucking river! Christ!”

Trott patted Smith's back. “It was _good_ , mate! We gotta have fish more often!” He laughed hard, catching a snort in his nose, and rubbed a long hand down his face. “It was so filthy, though. Why do we even _have_ a river, it should be a fucking trash bin.”

“I know, it's–” Smith stopped, standing straight, wiping at the tears in his eyes. “It's . . . perfect for me, I think.” He inhaled sharply and glanced at the lake, the waters quiet but never quite smooth, the city's winds pushing them back and forth like a rocking cradle. “Filthy river for a filthy mind.”

“It's _our_ filthy mind, though.” Trott flipped up the back of Smith's coiff for emphasis, snorting again as Smith yelped and smoothed it back.

Smith paused, meeting his eyes. “Still mad?”

“Still mad,” Trott confirmed. “But not enough to kick you to the couch tonight. Or leave you on the beach.” He turned, loafers skidding on the sand, and climbed back up the concrete wall. Smith stared after him, and followed. Trott slid into the passenger seat without a word. Smith whipped his keys out easily, turning the car on with the ease of flicking a horse's reins, revving the engine a few times.

“Wait,” he said slowly, facing Trott. “You were gonna _leave me_ on the _beach_?”

Trott laughed, long and loud, and smacked a hand on the dashboard. “Just take us home, mate! I gotta finish off that fish before Sips gripes at me about it sitting next to his TV dinners.”

Smith shook his head helplessly and pulled away from the parking lot. Crisp winds and the scent of seaweed filled their nostrils, fading into the smell of leather and burning oil as Smith sped over the road, back to the apartment.

 


End file.
